


Fractured Moon

by tari_roo



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Adventure, Captivity, Gen, Hurt John Sheppard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tari_roo/pseuds/tari_roo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured and in some serious trouble, Sheppard needs to escape his crazy native captors and rescue his team from the ‘supposedly civilized but maybe actually cannibals’ villagers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Written for the [Sheppard_HC fic](http://community.livejournal.com/sheppard_hc/) exchange for [](http://kriadydragon.livejournal.com/profile)[**kriadydragon**](http://kriadydragon.livejournal.com/)</lj> . Prompt at the end. (oh boy, first exchange jitters!) Hope you like it!

 

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA

Oh, he was _so_ going to have a boot shaped bruise between his shoulder blades... make that several. Fortunately, unfortunately, it was a little hard to weigh the pros and cons at the moment, the dull ache and pull that should have been a screaming torrent of pain, was more uncomfortable than anything else. 

The guy currently putting all of his weight behind cutting off the circulation to Sheppard’s arms had him pinned between a rather prickly wooden post and his boot, and was yanking for all he was worth on the ropes wrapped around John’s elbows, a dirt encrusted foot planted firmly between his shoulder blades. 

“I think you got it, dude,” John hissed, the vague discomfort notching up to real pain, as Mr. Conscientious wrapped another couple of loops of rope over and through his upper arms, and then pulled, cinching the loops tight, biting into skin, the rough hemp sliding down his arms until it was stopped by the mass of rope at his elbows. Shoulders protesting loudly, in a disconnected sort of way, nerves and neurons still abuzz with the happy juice, John heard more than felt his back crack, as the boot was moved to the small of his back and the pulling started all over again.

“Give it a rest, man, enough.” There were going to be matching bruises on his chest, the guy was pushing so forcefully into his back. John wasn’t the only one being subjected to the extremely thorough ‘tying up’. Several men from the village were pinned to similar poles and had their own detail oriented, sadistic ... ah... Tie ‘em Up-er? Bondage maker? Rope Handler? Knot Expert? Sadistic SOB. 

Finally, finally!, satisfied with the ropes and knots and no doubt rapidly swelling hands and arms, John was hauled to his unsteady feet. “Watch the merchandise, buddy!” Sheppard muttered as he was body slammed into the post, narrowly missing smashing his nose. Head still swimming, John gulped back rising nausea, picked a relatively steady spot in the distance and tried to pull himself together.

Whatever the hell had been in that fruit was seriously interfering with his nervous system, that much he was certain of. Random numb spots, sudden dizziness, pins and needles all over, but that may have been due more to the ropes. The relatively steady spot he’d picked was a long thin flagpole on the edge of the firelight. The roaring, towering bonfire at the centre of the haphazard village was a bright spot of agony to look at, so John didn’t, ignoring the excited figures gyrating around it - definitely something out of an old adventure movie. The trees here were massive, towering giants covered in vines and leaves and ... fruit. The weird fruit was everywhere, every tree seemed to have it and John groaned a little, but more due to the guy behind him pressing him more firmly against the post. 

This lot were a hell of a lot different from the others and judging by the stunned expressions of his fellow prisoners, the more civilised half of the population on MXC-333 didn’t have much to do with their rowdier, half naked brethren. Hoping that either a) his team was ok and b) on their way to rescue him, Sheppard swallowed again against the nausea, peering blearily at the flagpole.

Leaning against the post, John rested his cheek on the rough wood, uncaring, his head beginning to pound in unison with his throbbing arms. All of the prisoners seemed to be secured and everyone was waiting patiently by their post, one man openly weeping. Their captors, job now done, seemed disinclined to do anything more than keep them in place and wait. 

Certain that what was to follow would be... unpleasant, knowing his luck, Sheppard kinda hoped the rest of his luck held true and his team swooped in to the rescue with plenty of time to spare. Blinking a little, sweating profusely in the heat despite it being the middle of the night, Sheppard couldn’t help muttering, “What the hell are we waiting for?”

Strangely, surprisingly, his over-muscled captor answered, voice thick with a strange accent. “We wait for Githa’s third eye to rise.” 

“Eh?” The guy was pointing up, to the break in the canopy around the village. Two small moons, one with a striking trio of rings around it, could be seen through the break. They looked larger than Lantea’s moons, but smaller than Earth’s and had the usual mottled skin from meteor strikes. “Three moons, huh? Pretty.”

“They are her eyes, watching in the night, waiting to swallow us whole.” He seemed pretty ok with the idea of being swallowed whole, his oddly mutilated face staring up in adoration at the moons. No doubt in deference to the heat, John’s current captor and actually the one he suspected had grabbed him back at the village during the attack, was wearing nothing more than a loincloth and various leather... things. That, however, wasn’t the really eye catching thing about him, it was one of the least in fact. More noticeable, nay, unavoidable was his split and flattened nose, little spikes piercing through his very upper lip into the elongated nose – probably pinning it there. Part of the strange accent was due to his forked tongue, split at the very end. He was also hairless, completely, and either spent a great deal of time waxing and/or shaving or these people had figured out a way to ensure no hair grew... anywhere.

And the hairlessness and nose mutilation was just about the only thing they all had in common, as for the rest... their ‘eye catchingness’ was down to personal pref. John’s guy was covered in tattoos – most of scales and ridges, mimicking snake or reptile skin. He had pierced his eyebrows with so many sharp little sticks, he looked perpetually surprised and pissed off. And what wasn’t tattooed, was painted – lips black, eyes kohled, hands and feet covered in swirls and whorls. The guy had actually removed his nipples it seemed, his chest flat and smooth, small scars barely noticeable, or maybe it was body paint... 

Whatever, the guy looked like a scary freak and it didn’t take much to connect their obsession with snakes... er reptiles and the glistening white statue on the other side of the bonfire. John hadn’t got a real good look at it, but there were a lot of heads... maybe three. Arms strangely numb - suddenly numb - Sheppard sighed and spoke before really thinking about it, “Looks like you guys had more than three, huh. Smaller one... close to Mr. Rings up there?”

Head still pounding despite the now lack of feeling in his arms, Sheppard barely, but did in the end, notice the guy stiffen and turn to glare at him. Ok, maybe not glare, it was a little hard to tell in the dark despite the firelight and bright full moons. 

“A fourth?”

“Yeah, a pilot moon, crushed by the others, now draped around that one.” John nodded at the more distant of the two moons, its triple rings silver in the light of its neighbour. 

“Githa fought a mighty battle with the Sun, losing an eye but lengthening the night so that she can hunt in peace, undisturbed by his Heat.” Freaky ran his forked tongue over his black lips, John watching in fascination.

“Lies!” John couldn’t exactly turn around, but he figured it was one of the villagers on his right. The guy sounded fairly out of it, but his words were clear enough. “Heskth put out the Snake’s eyes so she stole his light and fashioned...”

The unseen villager’s equally unseen but probably bulky captor silenced him with a meaty thud, John wincing in sympathy. His own Freak snarled, “You will soon scream otherwise, Soft Belly.”

The village near the Stargate had seemed fairly normal, the jungle more forest, nice and tamed, and the pleasant villagers had hardly seemed the fanatical religious sort. “What is a fanatic?”

“Hmmm?” Sheppard glanced around and came eyeball to eyeball with his captor and resisted the reflex to draw back, mostly because there was no space to do so. “You called him a fanatic?”

“I did?”

“Yes. What is that?”

“Ah,” Sheppard wondered what else he may have been thinking aloud and mumbled, “Fanatics are kinda obsessive, unreasonable, give good people a bad name kinda thing. You know... fanatical about their beliefs.”

Freak’s smile was grotesque, and his breath truly awful and he laughed, “For something so hairy, you’re smart.”

“Thanks, I think.”

The celebrations around the bonfire were reaching a peak, or perhaps conclusion, and the five keepers straightened at the increasing volume of drums and shrieks. The sixth did not however, and Freak remained focused on Sheppard. Suddenly curious, the guy grabbed a fistful of Sheppard’s hair and didn’t exactly pull so much as yank. “Soft.”

“And attached... easy on the do, dude.”

Still with a very firm grip on his hair, Freak turned John’s face towards him, ran a rough finger over the stubble on his jaw and said, “Tell me what you think happened to Githa’s fourth eye?”

Apparently not really in control of his mouth, Sheppard said, “Maybe gravitational forces, a serious meteor strike knocked it too close to the other moons, or hell, maybe it was the inevitability of life. It cracked and crumbled, parts crashing into the moons, I don’t know. The lighter remnants stayed to be the rings, larger chunks probably fell from the sky, falling stars, years and years of meteor showers.” 

Freak’s breath was hot and fetid, his grip unyielding and he stared at John intently as he said, “And her tears fell for a hundred years, mourning the loss of her eye, tears of fire and blood. How do you know this, Offworlder?”

Ah, so they did know about the Gate, and other worlds. Sheppard shrugged minutely, more concerned with his parched throat and mouth and hissed, “Just lucky I guess.”

Looking behind him, Freak sighed, “Maybe not as lucky as you think.”

There was definite movement and motion near the fire and an actual honest to goodness metallic gong sounded, followed by a cacophony of bells and Freak backed off, letting John slump a little against the post. The relief was short lived though, as his bound elbows were grabbed and he was hauled towards the center of the prisoner’s circle, Freak shoving him to his knees. The other prisoners were similarly relocated and then John’s view of them was obscured as a meaty hand grabbed his jaw, forcing his head back and up. Caught off guard, Freak was able to shove a small bottle into Sheppard’s mouth, up ending the foul contents. Gagging for real, John tried to shake himself free, but with both hands now available, Freak just forced his mouth shut, held his nose and John swallowed. 

The result was instantaneous, something Freak was expecting because he let go not a moment too soon as Sheppard buckled forward, hurling a stream of bile and vomit. Perversely fascinated with the stream of pinkish-red coming from his mouth, gut and who the hell knew what, Sheppard gagged and retched until nothing more would come. Apparently not done, Freak grabbed his head again and John wondered where the hell he was pulling these bottles from, because another one was shoved into his mouth, more foul tasting crap forced down and then he was heaving up his internal organs again. 

Light-headed, aching all over, his arms a growling, screaming pain, shoulders and neck on fire, Sheppard groaned loudly. He wasn’t the only one either, his five fellows equally miserable. Freak crouched next to him, watching the occasional dry heave dispassionately. “The red merfl lingers in your belly a long time, its effects running through your veins for hours.”

“So what?”

John leaned down awkwardly, wiping his mouth on his pants, trying to gain a little control, but the rising pain in his arms was making that very difficult. “We do not want you... them, to escape feeling anything of what is to come.”

Ah. Red Meryl Streep fruit it was then – great little head trip not so painkillers. “Melodramatic much?” Freak didn’t answer though, and John didn’t really feel like pressing for details of this ominous ‘what is to come’ – it could only be bad. 

Turned out to be very bad. Freak was the last to haul John to his feet and steer him towards the cavorting crowds and Sheppard got his first good look at the flagpoles doting the village. They weren’t flagpoles for one. It was dark, but the firelight happily illuminated enough of the desiccated corpse impaled on top of the pole. Even the brief glimpse was enough to invoke another bout of dry heaves, but Freak did not pause and was soon pulling Sheppard through the screaming crowd.

As the prisoners arrived however, John at the end, the raucous crowd fell silent, and in the sudden quiet, only the snap and crackle of the fire was heard. The pale white statue of a three headed snake thing was a lot clearer now and it was not hard to spot the six newly cut, very sharp, very thick poles stacked against it.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

In the silence, a wrinkled, entirely tattooed man stepped forward, his thin lips and skinny shoulders only adding to the reptilian image. “Githa thirsts.”

The crowd responded, “For blood!”

“She swallows whole.”

A collective gasp and groan, “Bones and feet and head.”

“The darkness waits.”

A mighty shout, “With teeth!”

“Bring the first.”

Freak shoved John to his knees, but it certainly did not prevent or obscure his view at all. The crowd had backed off enough that there was an impressive space around the fire and statute. The old man intoned loudly as the first prisoner was dragged forward, a stream of pleas and protests already audible. “Eater of Flesh. She shall consume you.”

“Consume!”

“Soft Belly. She will pierce you through.”

“Pierce!”

“Vile Deceiver. She will purify you!”

“In death!”

The poor guy was dragged to the foot of the statue, his keeper kicking and forcing him onto his stomach. Alone, with no one helping and without apparently needing it, the guy hog tied the condemned man, feet to hands, performing the same complicated, twisted knots, pulling and cinching, ankle to elbows, knees tied to together. All the while, the guy wailed and cried, struggling ineffectively against his oh so secure bonds. 

Done, all the loose ends neatly tucked away, the prisoner a veritable mass of rope, the keeper stepped back, snagged a thick pole and then looked at the old man. The crowd was silent, but not with anticipation or excitement. It was more the intense silence of an unfolding drama, none of the heady heat from before. The old man stepped forward and kicked the prisoner over onto his side, exposing his belly, and the man upped the litany of cries and wails. 

“Silence, creature. Renounce your ways, denounce the Sun, confess your sins – and _I_ will spill your blood. Fail to recant, and the one who captured you will take his reward and avenge Githa.”

The man’s wails subsided, and he actually shot a nervous look at his fellow villagers who, now that John actually paid attention, were stone faced and angry. The guy licked his lips, paling as his keeper handled the long pole, and said, “You will cut my throat?”

The old man nodded. “Confess and your death will be swift. Otherwise it will be slow and agonising – as only you deserve.”

The man very firmly stared up at the old man and stammered, “I confess...”

The prisoner next to John, perhaps the same one from before judging by his black eye, exploded in anger, “Traitor. Faithless dog!” He was easy to subdue though, the combination of pain and prolonged retching and well, another ham-sized fist and he lapsed into glowering, malignant silence.

“Say on, Soft Belly.”

The man shot a nervous, apologetic look at his fellows before stammering again, “I confess. I renounce He.. the Sun.”

Shaking his head, the old man withdrew a long, deadly dagger and said, “Confess.”

The crowd whispered, taking up the echo, ‘Confess’. Looking at the blade, the man gulped, “I confess I have sinned.” Nothing more was forthcoming though and the crowd visibly rustled in disapproval. The old man knelt, holding out the blade, “Confess, Deceiver. All.”

Entranced by the nearness of the blade, the prisoner stammered, “I... ate flesh. I enjoyed it. I hunted it. I offered it to the Sun.”

There was no response from the silent crowd, and John felt a rough hand snag his hair, but Freak said nothing. “All.”

“Uhm... I lured the innocent, the naive. Spoke lies and half truths, hungered for flesh, for soft, soft flesh.” The prisoners near John were muttering, shaking their heads, the loudmouth from before visibly fuming. 

“Do you denounce?”

“Yes,” the man stammered again, and the old man leant forward and swiftly drew his blade across the exposed throat and growled, “Then let Githa forgive you, for we cannot.”

The man died with a soft gurgle, his blood soaking into the ground, a dark spreading pool. The keeper standing over the cooling corpse threw the pole into the fire and the crowd sighed, “Githa.”

The old man stood, turned to face the crowd and said, “Bring the second.”

Not surprisingly, Loudmouth was hauled over, his stiff, silent demeanour a stark contrast. His keeper shoved him onto the ground, onto his stomach , face close to the corpse of his fellow.

“Githa thirsts.” The old man intoned.

It wasn’t all that long ago that the very real certainty of death had hung over him in the shape of a Wraith and Kolya’s icy smile, but Sheppard couldn’t help but feel that time was rapidly running out. His team would have to arrive pretty darn soon if they were going to save him. Freak had not let go of his hair, but it grounded John, his head swimming in a miasma of fear and pain.

It didn’t take long for Loudmouth to be prepared, hog tied and defiant. With the executioners ready, pole and blade in hand, the old man kicked the condemned man over, once again exposing his belly.

“Renounce your ways. Denounce...”

“Never!”

The old man stopped, met the hard, defiant gaze and said loudly, “Choose your death.”

Loudmouth snarled, his lips curled in derision, “I would sooner slide upon my _belly_ and lick the dust like your filthy snake than renounce our ways.”

“Then she will judge you.” 

John shut his eyes, unconsciously turning away and Freak let him, but no matter how tightly he shut his eyes, he couldn’t shut off his hearing . There was no cheer from the crowd, no jeering or hissing. Just silence, and then terrified screams. 

It was only when the screams faded, and crowd began to murmur again that John opened his eyes. There was a new pool of blood but no impaled corpse and Freak whispered, “They have taken him to the edge of the jungle, where Githa will judge him until he dies.

There were no words as Sheppard looked up at the face of his executioner as silence fell again and the old man said, “Bring the third.” All John could really hear were the distant, but oh so still audible, screams. 

Surprisingly enough, of the remaining three villagers, only one more man renounced, despite the very real and vivid picture of what awaited those who did not. Sheppard determinedly did not watch as number 3 and number 5 were impaled and carried off by several men, and then it was only him left before the fire and two corpses lying in their own blood. 

Unless Ronon burst onto the scene in the next 30 seconds, John knew exactly what ‘death’ he was going to choose. And as the old man said, “Bring the last,” Freak hauled him up and promptly dropped him belly down near the dead men. 

“Githa thirsts.”

Having heard this litany five horrific times already, John closed his eyes, not really wanting his last moments to be filled with the intense faces of a crowd of Reptile Worshippers. Freak was as efficient and conscientious as before, and Sheppard did not fight him. Freak ran a rope from tightly bound knees to ankles, boots long discarded along with tac vest, weapons and anything of value. The rope bit tightly and deeply into his skin, hands pulled through his legs before his ankles were cinched to his elbows. It was excruciating, back arched and desperate to alleviate the pain. Freak continued to tie and loop and tighten and it wasn’t hard to let a few tears loose as the sadistic freak pulled and pulled and pulled until everything, everything screamed in pain. Finally done, John couldn’t see him move to get the last pole, but he heard the soft footfalls and then the old man was kicking him over.

Being on his side really didn’t help matters, none of the pain was diminished in the slightest. Looking up at the old man, John was surprised to see that the knife was sheathed and instead of a demand to renounce, the old guy said, “Offworlder. Your presence is an affront to Githa. Only her children, those who wait to be swallowed, may walk in her Jungle. You consort with evil, eat with them, trade with them. Your strangeness and arrogance offends her and she will judge you.”

Heart climbing out his chest, John cried out, “Wait, wait... I ...”

“There is nothing you can say, Offworlder. No matter your ignorance or protests, Githa will judge.” Bathed in cold sweat, heart pounding, Sheppard stared up at the night sky, refusing to watch Freak approach with that damn skewer, eyes fixed on the three heavy moons above. Rings was slightly obscured by the late arrival of the Third Eye, this one the largest, slightly blue in colour. The stars themselves were barely visible, distant pinpricks. 

Taking a deep breath, Sheppard turned back to the towering figure - Freak - looming over him, the sharp end of the pole unerringly pointed at his stomach suddenly wanting to see it coming. Freak however was looking more at the moons than John, slowly gazing up and down; Sheppard then the moons. 

The crowd was silent as ever, the old man unseen, only Freak really John’s focus. The point of the pole touched his t-shirt but John didn’t tear his eyes away from Freak’s mutilated face. Freak met his gaze and John said, “You can probably only see it on clear winter nights, but all three moons have rings, dust and death of the fourth around them. I bet they shimmer sometimes, a strange halo, like an iris.”

“Githa’s Gaze.”

“Your whole planet has pieces of the fourth on it, strange rocks that don’t look like anything normal, in craters and pits and dark places.”

“Githa’s Tears.”

“When the fourth moon collapsed, crushed between the gravity wells of its bigger sisters, the tides changed, there were storms and seasons of drought.”

Freak sank to his haunches, pole clattering to the ground, “The Jungle writhed.”

Sheppard was running out of fun facts about moons, the gnawing, biting, grinding pain blinding him. Freak however did not take up the pole again and said instead, “What of the Sun? Speak of it.” 

Looking up, John frowned and struggled with, “Giant ball of gas. I mean huge. Takes minutes for the light to reach the planet it’s so far away.”

“It is bigger than the world? The Moons?”

Uncaring if his answers were not what Freak wanted to hear, John nodded, “Yeah, massive – can fit a thousand planets inside it, I think. But the sky is full of suns – all the stars are distant suns, thousands upon billions of light years away.”

“The stars are suns?”

“Yeah. Very, very distant suns.”

“Ours is not the only one?”

“Nope. On my world, I look up at the night sky and your sun is a distant, distant star.”

Freak actually smiled at that and said slowly, “Githa moves above us, slowly swallowing the world, the glints of her scales the pinpricks of the lights above, surrounding her beautiful eyes. She slowly squeezes the world, encompasses the sky.”

Not entirely sure where this was going, Sheppard said quietly, pain under-riding everything, “Space, the black, is endless. Goes on forever, filled with thousands of worlds, suns, stars, galaxies, crazy assed people.”

The old man suddenly hunkered down next to Freak and stared at them both, before saying, “You speak as a man, with respect for Githa. Which is larger Offworlder, Githa or the Sun?”

Really struggling to think clearly through the screaming pain, Sheppard growled, “If by Githa you mean space and stars and shit, then hell yeah, Githa is bigger than the sun. The Sun lives in her.”

“Perhaps your presence does not offend Githa after all. Do what you will with your prize, Orath.” And with that, the old man left, and the crowd began to disperse. A lone, cut off strangle of a scream echoed in the silence of the late night and Freak stared down at Sheppard, reached out for a fistful of hair, and said, “Soft.”

*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a

[Part 2](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/15585.html#cutid1)  


  



	2. Chapter 2

*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a

John awoke to blessed, blessed relief. The party after the executions had lasted long into the night, with the mass of tattooed villagers only really quietening down as the moons disappeared beneath the horizon. Freak had carried him, still tied, to a large hut, presumably his, and had dumped him outside the door. In incredible pain, John had fitfully dozed, trying to endure the agony, escape it a little, the immense relief of a near escape making him shake even as his muscles screamed in concert with the death cries from outside the village. Vaguely aware, nearly blind with torment, John saw Freak return as the party died down and the rush of agony and relief as he cut the ropes, both at his elbows and knees, had sent him into unconsciousness. 

He’d awoken briefly to the sensation of small feathery touches on his feet and had seen the disappearing tail of some weird bug as it ran off disturbed by his stirring. Wrists and ankles still bound, but infinitely better than before, John returned to sleep even as he tried to plan for what might be coming in the morning. He may have escaped death but who knew what Freak had planned for him.

Now though, with the bright hot sunshine of mid morning beating down on his face, John awoke for real, already feeling the stiffness in his limbs. The village was still quiet, the excesses of last night still keeping them abed. The Jungle around the village was also quiet, the bonfire a smouldering, smoking mess. The pole which would have been his fate, lay forgotten near the white statue visible from anywhere in the village which, he idly realised, was horseshoe shaped, the statue and fire at the centre.

The strange dinosaur type reptiles which the villagers had ridden with such success in the attack on the other village near the Stargate were penned at the base of the horseshoe, a definite stink emanating from that area. 

Reluctant to move, mostly due to the certainty of the protest of abused muscles, Sheppard stayed on his stomach, scoping out the village, noting the narrow tracks which disappeared into the Jungle, the baskets and bundles of food suspended on the doorways of homes, the complicated looking well on the right. Eventually, he turned over and onto his side, grimacing at the aches and pains, but it also felt good to move. It took a little more effort than he’d like and eventually John was sitting, bound legs before him, back against the post of the porch-like overhang all the huts seemed to have. 

There wasn’t much in the way of handy sharp objects lying around, and as John studied the immediate area looking for something to use to cut through the ropes, he couldn’t help worrying about his team. Where were they? What had stopped them from immediately pursuing the raiders? Grimacing a little, Sheppard leaned his head back and looked up at the leafy porch roof, streaks of light and sky peeking through. He’d been pretty out of it with that red fruit, barely feeling what Freak had been doing and only Rodney hadn’t eaten any, his usual paranoia about citrus in full bloom. If they’d survived the attack, which John had to believe they had, they might not have been able to pursue... and there had been more raiders than just this village. The sudden sharp fear that Ronon and Teyla, or Rodney, had been captured by another village of these Reptile guys and had not escaped being impaled...

The urge to hurl was unrelenting but fortunately he had nothing left after the extreme bout of vomiting last night, but it took a good long while to calm himself down, to stop dry heaving. The only silver lining was spotting a nice sharp rock as he bent over to the side. Shoving aside fears and worries he could do nothing about, Sheppard shuffled around and felt with numb fingers for the lump of stone. The edge was hardly a razor but it would most certainly do. Glancing now at the still silent hut behind him, John set to work on freeing himself. It would take some time, and effort, but he had plenty of motivation. He shuffled until he backed against the post so that his hands were hidden should anyone walk by, but it was a good half hour before he spotted any sort of movement in the village. Keeping his hands out of sight, Sheppard continued to work, slowly fraying the very tight, well made ropes. 

A few kids emerged first, and it was shocking to see that they too already had tattoos and mutilated faces. The smallest, a little girl, was the only one to stare at him, and as her friends called her, she stuck out her tongue, her forked tongue, and ran off. The small crowd of kids, five or so, ran towards the edge of the Jungle, no doubt to see the three new gruesome impaled corpses. 

The trickle of activity grew as more villagers emerged and John felt his own anxiety rise, as the adults most certainly did not ignore him, many passing by the hut, glaring at him, openly hostile. Normally John would have smiled, attempted some sort of overture, but the memories of the night were still too fresh and he felt nothing but anger – and healthy fear. These people did not want him, wanted him dead in fact and only Freak’s strange fascination with him had saved him. 

There was no hustle and bustle though, everyone seemed to go about their business slowly and carefully. The heat was growing, the humidity levels cloying, and John had been sweating from the get go. A few men and women disappeared into the jungle, some drew water and others just puttered about their homes, making and eating food. A few joined their children at the edge of the Jungle and while Sheppard couldn’t see the gruesome spectacle, thankfully, he could hear their raised voices and laughter. 

It was nearly midday by the time Freak emerged from the hut and John was nearly through the ropes. It had taken far longer than he’d liked and now with everyone wide awake and active, cutting through the ropes no longer seemed like a good idea. Freak would not doubt check his bonds and notice the frayed ropes, almost free and well... Sheppard didn’t want to lose his opportunity to escape before it even arrived. 

Freak stepped out of the hut, yawned widely, his forked tongue sticking out, and stretched, joints and back cracking. Shaking himself, he glanced down, spotted John and smiled. It was no less a disturbing smile in daylight, his black lips cracked and dry, but the nose and eyebrows were even worse in good light. 

He dropped to his haunches so that he was face to face with Sheppard and reached out to grab John’s hair again. Not resisting, instead shoving his stone into the back pocket of his BDUs, Sheppard tried not to growl as Freak roughly ruffled his hair, laughing at how it stuck up on its own.  

Freak continued to study Sheppard, idly touching his hair, then fingering his jaw, running over the stubble, rough, curious and well... weird. His strange face was far closer than Sheppard was comfortable with but he kept his expression bland, disinterested even as he furiously tried to hide the frayed sections of the rope behind him. 

There were definite thought patterns running through Freak’s head, his eyes keen and intent. Pressing one last firm overly harsh thumb into Sheppard’s jaw, Freak leaned back into the hut and pulled out a small wooden tub. Something black and pasty was inside, and Freak stuck a thick finger into it, nearly filling the small opening, and began painting John’s face - under his eyes, down his nose, across his chin, streaks on his cheeks and then finally his mouth. Then he fingered the paste into John’s hair, laughing when all it did was make his hair shiny, already too black. “You are strange, Offworlder. I still don’t know what to do with you.”

Lips feeling thick and gummy, Sheppard said drily, “Could let me go.”

Freak shook his head, serious, but did not stop rubbing more paste into John’s hair. “Cannot. You are Githa’s. Your words and belief meant she did not have to Judge you, but you are still hers. Still an Offworlder.”

Freak was now eyeing John’s chest and his tattered BDU shirt. Without warning, he hauled John forward and, before Sheppard could be certain his fingers were covering the frayed rope ends, a sharp knife pricked thumb and fingers and then his hands were free.

“Take it off.”

“Hmm?” Sheppard was slowly, wincingly, bringing his arms around, watching Freak for a reaction, a sign that he had noticed the ropes. Freak gave no indication but tugged insistently on John’s sleeve. “Take if off.”

Arms on a slow burn, aching and stuff, Sheppard slowly complied, unbuttoned his shirt, grimacing as his shoulders protested but it also felt good to move, to be alive, free.  Freak snatched up the shirt when John was done, sniffing it and rubbing the material on his face. 

Black t-shirt followed, just as hard to pull over his head, back and shoulders screaming in protest. Shaking, sweating now in combination of effort and the growing heat of the day, Sheppard looked down at his chest, wincing at the purple bruises, mottled with red and pale skin. No doubt his back was far worse. 

He nearly jumped, nearly slapped Freak’s hand away when the guy reached out to touch his chest hair. Narrowly catching himself, his arm twitching nonetheless, Sheppard let Freak poke and prod him, study the deep bruises on his arms from the ropes, seemingly fascinated by the many colours, purple and red against pale skin. 

And sure enough, the paint was picked up and those thick fingers which caused the bruises in the first place, painted around and on the bruises and welts.  

“Ah,” John said tentatively, noting Freak’s intense expression, but not really sure what to say, what he wanted to frame beside a pre-emptive protest, as Freak’s hands drifted lower. Luckily, Freak shoved him down, exposing his back in an awkward twist over bound legs, his face pressed into dirt and pebbles which moved with each puff of pained breath as Freak ‘treated’ the larger, deeper bruises on his back. He spent some time painting a  spot near his spine, in the middle of the boot print. Freak may not have been trying to hurt him, but his ministrations and decorating was sending sparks of pain through John’s brain and it took a lot of self control not to twist away, fight it. Sheppard was very conscious of the precarious nature of the stay of execution, Freak’s interest in him alone only really saving him.

Freak eventually hauled him to his feet, ankles somehow untied in the same motion, and Sheppard swayed briefly, light headed with thirst and hunger ... and pain. “Come.”

A rough basket of some twisted plant material was thrust at him, and then he was shoved forward. Stumbling a little, Sheppard followed Freak out of the village, very aware of the glances and glares directed at him – them. At the back of his mind, John was cognisant that their path was heading directly to the site of the executed villagers, but he was still shocked by the grisly sight. It was difficult to look away, seeing a fate he had oh so narrowly escaped displayed in such grotesque spectacle. The children were still there, chattering excitedly, one of them actually running his hands on a stake, showing the others how his hands came away red.

Freak reached back and yanked John away, “Come!” Looking away in relief, the grisly sight disappearing from view as he followed Freak into the dim confines of the jungle, their bare feet smacking along a hard trail through the undergrowth. It was no cooler under the trees, in fact it was worse, more humid, more close. There were Githian’s at the base of several large trees and Freak was making his way to a particularly big one, heavy with purple and red fruit. Pulling the basket from John’s hands, Freak pointed him towards the tree and said, “Climb. Knock down the lightest, palest ones.”

John looked up at the tree, its broad trunk, thick branches looked both easy to scale and perhaps deceptive. There was an odd knot and crack in the otherwise smooth wood and at Freak’s insistent shove, John leapt up, grabbed hold of a handy knot and ignored the protest of his muscles to slowly make his way up into the branches. 

Watchful for weird bugs and alien creatures, and possible escape avenues, Sheppard reached the branches with lighter fruit and inched his way over. The pause in activity gave his muscles opportunity to verbalise their protests some more about their unhappiness with the required activity, but he pushed on regardless and tugged the nearest fruit off the branch. Dropping it, he heard the corresponding thud below.

The bark beneath his fingers was smooth and hard, did not give at all – a very tough wood. It was quiet in the tree, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the occasional voice from Githians in the trees and on the ground. The fruit had a sickly sour smell, not at all appetising and as John reached out for another, the skin of the fruit felt thick and tough, like the bark. It barely seemed to ‘give’ as he tugged on it, the flesh firm and unyielding under his fingers. This one was also dropped and Freak called up, “Good. Even lighter, higher up.”

Sheppard looked up into the branches and sure enough, paler fruit was above his head, almost white, a pale pink. Brushing past thicker, almost purple black fruit, John scrambled up, balancing on the odd branch and hauling himself hand over hand at times. The familiar motion of free climbing was comforting, the practiced ease of testing his hold, pushing his body to stretch and lift. 

Picking fruit as he went, letting it drop down to Freak, John made his way to the very top of the tree, the highest branches still sturdy and thick enough to support him, feeling confident in his abilities and the strength of the tree. Reaching the canopy, John found the whitest fruit so far, those exposed directly to the sunlight. Balanced in the fork of branches, leg braced on one, hand holding onto another above him, swaying with the motion of the tree John looked out over the roof of the jungle.

The canopy was like a green ocean, stretching out for miles around, a bright mix of greens and browns swelling on every side, with the occasional break in the expanse. There was a cool breeze that ruffled the leaves and John felt the sweat on his face cool a little, his hair moving stiffly with all the paint in it. Squinting against the bright light, Sheppard studied the expanse and noted a very unnatural looking spire jutting out from the trees. Looking closer, peering to see more detail, it looked like several tall buildings had been swallowed by the jungle, only the roof and towers visible. The structures were several miles away, and even then the distance was probably greater as who knew if the jungle floor ran straight and true, the odd twist and swell of the trees hiding gorges and ravines. 

Looking to the horizon, far in the distance, many miles away, a range of blue mountains were visible, their peaks solid and sharp, like knives. One of the moons was still able to be seen, a pale counterpart to the previous night’s bright glow, and it hung above the mountains like they were propping it up, or it was caught on their jagged edges. As the mountain range disappeared into the horizon it looked like something massive had smashed into them and created a corresponding crater edge disappeared into the jungle. The shattered remains of the mountains and landscape were mostly covered but the crater was still discernable, even covered by the forest. 

“Offworlder!”

Freak’s voice was distant, faint but John didn’t really want to descend on any means or terms but his own, so he yelled, “Yeah!”

He picked the closest fruit, hoping Freak wasn’t already clambering up after him and then slowly made his way down. As expected, the climb down was harder, his legs shaking with exhaustion and strain, while he was dripping with sweat, the black swirls and whorls over his chest and back sticky and uncomfortable. Freak nodded when he jumped down, landing lightly but still heavier than normal, wincing. The guy held out a full basket and John reluctantly took it. “Come.”

The rest of the day, John spent trying to open the fruit. This task was made more difficult due to Freak only giving him a sharp stick to pry them open, and no instruction on how best to do so. And adding to that, it wasn’t just his basket he had to open, but Freak’s neighbours as well. The fruit was just as tough as it looked and he stabbed himself a couple of times before getting it right, fruit braced between his knees, stick angled away. The flesh inside was thick, dense and juicy. Freak gave him a bowl to scoop the fleshy fruit into, the hard skin and pulp into another. On the third, or maybe fourth one, John couldn’t help himself and licked his hands, savouring the moisture and surprising sweetness.

The blow was unexpected and caught him by surprise, Freak moving far faster than usual. Rocked by the blow, but unmoved, John stared at Freak who snarled, “No. Not for you.”

Freak actually grabbed his face, squeezing hard, smearing the paint and adding to the litany of bruises, and hissed again, “Not for you.” Nodding his understanding, John straightened and licked his lips, not surprised to taste blood. Going back to work, John scraped out the delicious looking fruit, but decided to press his luck even more. 

“Thirsty work.”

Freak was leaning against one of the posts holding up the porch roof, while John was seated opposite leaning against the other. The other bachelors Freak shared the hut with came and went, stepping over them, either ignoring John or staring at him. Freak smiled, tipping his head back and looking up at the thatch above and said, “Githa sates her thirst from the blood of her prey.”

“What does Githa eat?”

The pulpy flesh squirted and oozed as John dumped it into the bowl, a messy pile. Freak didn’t look down, still gazing at the roof and said, “Everything. Githa consumes the world.”

Tossing the empty gourd, Sheppard picked up the next, many still to go, and asked quietly, “And me, what do I eat?”

“What Githa decides to give you.”

Ah, very helpful that, and John sighed, attacking the fruit with a sharp jab. “Githa likely to give me anything, anytime soon?”

Freak just hummed softly and shrugged, “Maybe. Her hunger is great... she may not wish to share.” 

Determined, John pressed further, trying to gauge if his questions were offending Freak’s odd beliefs, “And water... does she share that?”

Freak looked down, eyes flat, his paint freshly applied and grim, and growled, “Her tears are sacred. They are forbidden.”

Great. “So you guys drink... fruit juice? This stuff?”

Freak nodded, “Githa provides; her Jungle gives life to her children. Root and branch, seed and fruit. A bounty.”

“Which is not for me.” John didn’t exactly phrase it as a question, more a statement of clarity but Freak nodded.  “For her children.” And to illustrate this, Freak scooped some of the fruit up, and licked it off his hand, his forked tongue darting in and out like a true reptile. “Great.”

John worked in silence for a while, several fruit meeting their own grisly deaths, Freak watching through hooded eyes. Eventually, the guy leaned forward and said, “Do you eat flesh?”

Well aware how loaded that question was, last night’s ritual wording and horrific scenes undiminished at all by the new day, John deliberated for a moment before saying, “Define flesh.”

Freak blinked, narrowed his eyes and grabbed John’s upper arm and squeezed, saying “This. This is flesh. Do you eat this?”

Staring at the black painted hand squeezing his already bruised arm, John hissed, “Let go.” Freak was slow to do so, but did eventually, re-iterating however, “That is flesh – meat, blood and bone.”

Tempted to lie, very, very tempted to become an instant vegetarian, and if a lie saved his life... Sheppard said instead, “Why is eating flesh so ... ah ... wrong? What’s the ...”

A bark of outraged laughter, and Freak leaned back, slamming his hand onto his chest with a dull thud. “All flesh belongs to Githa! It is an offense to eat the flesh of any creature, but especially her children. She punishes those who eat what is hers, turns it to poison, venom, death. Madness and destruction follow eaters of flesh.”

Paused in motion, stick poised over fruit, Sheppard watched Freak warily, and the guy continued with, “I ask again, Offworlder. Do you eat flesh?”

The lie would be easy, probably save him, but Sheppard asked quietly, “What do you mean, ‘eat her children’? You’re her children, right? Or are all animals...”

Snarling, Freak growled, “We are her children. The beasts and birds that live within her are prey and life and death. We, we are her children.” He smacked his chest in emphasis again, looking more and more worked up.

Putting the pieces together and not liking the picture that was forming, Sheppard asked as calmly as he could, “So, when you said the villagers... ah, others, were eaters of flesh, and that they ate the Children of Githa ... you mean they ate... ah, you?”

Freak was vibrating with emotion, and he leaned close to John and hissed, “Yes, Offworlder. So, are you an eater of flesh?”

With absolute conviction, Sheppard looked straight into Freak’s angry eyes and said, “No.”

They stayed that way for a few seconds, Freak apparently seeing the truth, or maybe not caring after all and sitting back, definitely not as relaxed as before. Sheppard however had a growing pit of real unease in his stomach. Ignoring the glowering Freak, half heartedly stabbing at the fruit, John thought back on the previous night and day.

The villagers, the Heskets, all had admitted, in some way, to being ‘eaters of flesh.’ And Freak seemed to think that meant they were cannibals. Therefore his team, hopefully his still alive team, were with a village of cannibals. Suddenly his lack of rescue had a whole slew of dire implications – and not just that they couldn’t find him. Images of his friends in the hands of cannibals, trapped, tricked or even just dead flashed through his mind. 

The immediate, desperate need to get out of there, away from Freak, away from the angry glare, and to go check, make sure his friends were ok, that the villagers were not in fact cannibals was urgent and insistent. It would have to be tonight, had to be. Despite his very real danger, it seemed John was the one in safe hands after all. Who knew what was happening in the village... to his team. 

Unable to stop, uncaring now if he offended Freak, John asked, “So, the villagers... the others, they worship the sun by eating flesh... humans.”

Knuckles white, Freak nodded, “Heskth, the abomination. They kill Offworlders, the Children and pour out their blood to the Sun and then eat the flesh, believing it makes them strong, alive, real.”

“Ah... they do this often? Daily... weekly...”

Freak’s towering anger seemed to dip a little, and he said with less venom, “With ritual. Their ways are strange – weeks, months go by before they lure a Child, trap a man. Maadth says they eat the beasts and birds daily, saving Flesh for rituals, for ceremonies to Heskth. You worry for your friends?”

It was easy to nod, a glimmer of hope emerging as Freak nodded as well but that glimmer was hardened into resolve to escape when Freak said, “Their deaths will be slow. We buried the Gate, so the Traitors will not kill them until the Gate is uncovered... save them for the ceremony of opening.”

With that news weighing heavily on him, certain that if Ronon and Rodney were helping uncover the Gate in order to get help for him and the work would be done quickly, John went back to his own work. He had to escape, make it back to the village and the Gate before any ceremony could take place. The fear, the doubt that maybe it was already too late, Sheppard ignored, liking to think that his friends were busy and alive, rather than filling the pots of cunning cannibals.

The attack on the village was a blur, the affects of the fruit they had eaten and drunk already in full swing. The Githians had been riding the oversized lizards and had been detonating some sort of explosive, creating smoke that smelt weird, sickly. John vaguely remembered seeing the Gate go down, a scream of metal, but Stargates were sturdy and Rodney was persistent. He’d been running towards the Gate, Ronon and Teyla behind him, when Freak had crashed into him, body slamming him with the lizard thing he was riding. Between the smoke and fruit and concussion, Sheppard had barely heard Teyla’s shout, but as Freak hauled him onto the lizard, he remembered clearly seeing an upside down Teyla and Ronon trying to reach him through the press of white clad villagers running in the opposite direction. Rodney was a strident voice over the noise, yelling something about the smoke and fruit. 

He had woken up with a jolt when Freak had tossed him off the lizard and he’d been too out of it to really fight the complicated knots and bonds later. 

His team was alive, they had to be... Rodney alone was probably assuring their survival, his promise of getting the Gate working quickly keeping the cannibals at bay... hopefully. Maybe. 

By the time John was done with all the fruit his hands ached, his throat was as dry as the desert, but he was no longer hungry. The sun was setting, the air already cooler, and the village came to life, more people moving around, the passage of visitors to huts more frequent. The moment the fruit was done the bowls had been whisked away, skin and flesh, and as fires were lit, the atmosphere in the village became far more lively. 

Huddling back into a corner, the increasing passage of people resulting in far more curious and angry looks, John ran through as many escape plans as he could, the need to escape burning through him now. Rescue was not coming, he had to do the rescuing, of that he was certain. 

Freak had been joined by his hut mates and several other bachelors, all hulky and muscle bound. They did not dwarf John in height, but they were far heavier, thick in thigh and chest, their dark skins glistening with fresh paint and dark tattoos. They all had the same angry expression, slitted tongues, flat noses, black mouths. Not exactly the most comforting bunch of dinner guests, no matter that they were vegetarian. Their angry looks at him hardly made Sheppard feel at ease... at all.

A sour woman brought the bachelors some food, several bowls steaming in the early evening. John watched the village instead, ignoring the men, refusing to heed his own stomach’s growls at the delicious smells. The village was not large, John able to ‘note’ everyone. There were only five children, one infant. Maybe fifty people in total, very few women, far more bachelors. 

There was a burst of laughter from the men near him and John felt their gaze, heard Freak’s booming laughter. He was close enough to hear what they were saying, but they spoke so fast, and between their mutilated tongues and thick accents, it was difficult to follow the conversation. 

Sheppard kept one ear on the men to his right, a watchful look on the village, making sure he didn’t seem to stare at anyone, and ran through the half formed escape plan that was unfolding in his head. There were a lot of variables and one major obstacle... he had no idea in which direction the Gate lay. But hopefully if he climbed a tree at night and could see the lights of the village, he’d be able to make his way there. Once he was free, pursuit evaded.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a thick-set man lunge towards him but, as quick as he was, the other guy was quicker and he slammed Sheppard into the post behind him, a hand at his throat. Unfortunately nor was he alone, but John wasn’t out of it tonight, high on happy fruit, and he kicked out, punched one guy in the throat, another in the nose. There was the accompanying howls, but there were too many of them, and one good crack of his head on the post, and someone already pinning his arms behind him, and all too soon all Sheppard could do was wriggle and writhe as they tied him in place. 

His arms were getting the same treatment as the night before, wrist and elbows bound together, bindings cutting into already bruised flesh and he couldn’t help crying out as the guy behind him starting pulling on the ropes, tightening them, wrapping them higher and higher up his arms. Two others were tying his knees together, behind the pole, the wood pressing between his legs, the stretch of muscle and limb unnatural and painful. Someone else was cinching his ankles together, viciously tightening the ropes, uncaring of the accompanying moan. In a parody of the position of a condemned man, the four men tied his ankles and wrists together so that his back arched against the pole and an almighty fire of pain and agony ran through him, everything, everything straining for relief, a concert of pain. 

Uncaring of the tears that streaked his face, Sheppard cursed loudly, pulling against the restraints but as they let go, the weight of his torso dropped him forward and he only stopped when the pole met the mess of rope around his arms. Chest heaving, bathed in sweat, helpless and furious, Sheppard glared at Freak who suddenly swam into view, yanking up his head with a fistful of hair.

“What the hell... “

Freak smiled, his pupils wide and blown... the guy was freaking high. “Jisth said that maybe Githa wanted to Judge you after all... but Maadth is not here to decide, so... we compromised on this. Your flesh is not pierced, but Githa can still judge your pain, and agony...” Freak seemed happy, his smile broad and toothy. John would have spat at him, but he didn’t have the moisture so he said instead, “Well screw you too.”

Freak dropped his head and John groaned, the strain on his shoulders and back immense and it was an effort to look up, but he did so anyway, glaring angrily at the laughing men around Freak’s fire. They were drinking something, and the heady smell of alcohol was in the air. Great, just great. He’d been hoping that if Freak tied him up for the night, he’d still be able to free himself with the stone in his back pocket, but this... there was no way he was getting out of this without help. He was in for a long night.

As the night wore on, and John fought the rising pain, unable to shift himself into a position that didn’t hurt, nothing going numb, the tingling fire of his hands losing all feeling hardly comforting. The men drinking and laughing a few feet away, kept on looking over and bursting out in guffaws of laughter, their wide black smiles and forked tongues surreal in the flickering firelight. 

Eventually resigning himself to just enduring, waiting it out, John tried to push the pain to one side, maybe doze off, but it was difficult, the awkward angle on his neck making everything ache and burn. It was just an effort to breathe, find the will not to start screaming until they just cut his throat to silence him.

It was late, the raucous laughter dying down, but no sign of turning in, when John noted one of the men approaching him, crawling on all fours. Past caring, vaguely hoping that he was either going to untie him, or kill him, Sheppard silently sweated, and shuddered, muscles twitching and shaking. The guy had the same nose and mouth as Freak, but had more tattoos on his face, less scars and ridges. His bald head was covered in paint as well, and he had no ears, only two small holes, faint scars around them. 

The guy opened his mouth, a wide smile, and showed John his tongue, and it was spilt almost in two, not just forked. It was even harder understanding him but John hoped it got it right when the guy said, “Orath says you are black and white... like Githa.” He elongated Githa into a long hiss, flapping his tongue at John, like a snake. “Black and white, like her belly and eyes... glint of scales.” The guy touched John’s hair and skin, running a sharp nail down his quivering chest. 

“Get. Lost.”

Ignoring John, the guy wiped his thumb across John’s face, noting the tears and sweat and said with the distinctive lisp, “I agree. Githa claims you.”

“Githa can go to hell.”

Fortunately, the guy didn’t react, instead he pulled out a pot... of paint. John rolled his eyes and hissed, “You guys are freaking obsessed, you know that.” Strangely gentle, the little guy slowly spread thick white paint over John’s face, the tub larger than Freak’s little thing. The gooey substance felt cool, but soon turned sticky as it absorbed his sweat. 

Covering Freak’s efforts from before, the guy painted John’s entire face white, and up into his hairline, over his ears, into his nose. Snorting and pulling away, Sheppard hissed, “Enough. Go away.”

Undeterred, the guy ran both hands over John’s corded neck, quivering shoulders and heaving chest, covering everything with white. He was methodical and ignored John’s litany of complaints, painting the ropes over John’s arms as well. Wiping his hands on John’s pants, the guy opened another pot, this one black and then proceeded to add black detail. 

He did less than Freak on his face, down his nose and chin, one long stripe, eyes and lips. He traced out John’s ribs, the ridges of his bones easy to find, his collar bone, solar plexus. He finished with a complicated swirl over John’s heart, running up onto his shoulder. Packing away the pots, the would-be artist studied Sheppard, and John said as clearly as he could through the pain, “Untie me, you snake obsessed moron.”

The guy just smiled and rejoined his much quieter friends, who were now slumped and drifting off, Freak already collapsed onto his back, pointing up at the stars, muttering something.

It was becoming unbearable, and John hissed to himself, “Come on, come on, please... just ...” he shifted, pulled tried to find some angle that didn’t mean he was carrying his weight on his arms and shoulders, but it was to no avail. “Damnit!”

The soft patter of rain woke John from a pain filled daze, the thatch above rustling as the raindrops fell. Only Freak and his roommates were left and the rain woke them, Freak sitting up, his eyes looking red and angry in the dull firelight. 

As he stood and staggered towards the doorway, Sheppard didn’t know if his ‘please’ was audible or not, but Freak paused and looked at him, face lost in shadow, expression hidden. 

All three moons were up, one already waning, no longer full and Sheppard tried to meet Freak’s gaze, tried to summon up enough air, to ask, plead, uncaring if he was begging. Grunting, Freak stepped forward and carelessly cut John free, slicing his arm in the process. 

Sheppard didn’t care though, the immediate relief was instantaneous. Freak disappeared into the hut, leaving John still tied at wrist and ankle, the pole still between his legs, but Sheppard happily took several long, pain free breaths. The temptation, no... need, to sleep was immense, but now was the time to start working on an escape... and there was no time to waste.

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA


	3. Fractured Moon 3/4

  


Title: Fractured Moon 3/4

Rating: PG13/R (Gen)

Fandom: SGA

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA

Maybe it was the hunger, maybe it was the exhaustion, but even as his bare feet pounded into the ground, dodging roots and undergrowth, Sheppard couldn’t help thinking of all those cliché action movies with the hero being chased by a crowd of irate natives. Granted, his natives were vegetarian snake worshippers and not the usual cannibals, but since he was running towards the potential cannibals, all the boxes were ticked anyway. 

Freak and his posse had missed him a hell of a lot quicker than he’d expected, as the sun was barely tipping the canopy, and the sounds of pursuit were nipping on his heels. And he probably had faster, more proficient, and more silent hunters ahead of the noisy pack, closing in. And they knew where they were going – towards him, while John – John was running in a ‘man I hope this is the right direction’. 

There was a loud squeal snort, followed by a sharp whistle and shout and no doubt the damn giant lizards were in on the chase. Risking his footing, risking the path ahead, Sheppard glanced upwards at the trees, a sneaky suspicion, nay hope, blossoming, but he would have to find the right... opportunity.

At the edge of his periphery there were flashes of movement, running figures on every side, gaining suddenly, falling back and then abruptly closer than expected, so Sheppard ducked and weaved, trying to keep from being boxed in and keep his minimal lead. But it was rapidly becoming futile, the net narrowing, Freak’s posse intent on reeling him in.

It was more instinct than sensory, but Sheppard zigged suddenly rather than zagged as he had been intending and felt the brush of fingers, the hot breath of a Githian hunter suddenly ‘right there’ and then a sturdy tree spared him, delayed his pursuer and then... there was the opportunity.

A sloping tree, malformed and twisted but had a handy slant to it, and Sheppard leapt up, grabbed hold of a branch and was into the foliage, a broad, thick branch underfoot. With no time to really think about he ran on, along the branch and jumped into the next tree, running along the broad branches. Sheppard thundered down the thick branch and leapt to the next tree, getting a little air and landing easily. There were shouts and exclamations below him as the hunt slowed to locate their quarry, the rough snort and whistle of the lizards sharp in the morning air. 

The press of branches and leaves around him was handy cover, but all too soon Sheppard could hear the sounds of pursuit in the tree tops behind him as the Githian’s followed up into the canopy. Flashes of movement below darted on either side of his haphazard path, backtracking and correcting to follow him from below. 

It was surprisingly easy running along the branches, the jungle close and overgrown at this height but hardly impassable and it felt like he was keeping his distance from the hunters in the trees, but the risk of misjudging a leap to the next tree was huge especially, as at one particularly long gap, John caught a glimpse of an upturned face, flat nose and mouth snarling up at him. The hunters below were mostly on lizard back and thus faster and getting ahead of him. 

Hoping his ‘generally the right direction’ pell mell race wasn’t going in circles, Sheppard tried to keep track of the sun above but least he wasn’t being boxed in or herded. The trees hardly ran in a straight line, branches interlinking in a maze of possible routes and paths, shouts and calls from the hunters all around him, but some very distant. It was more of a looming open space than break, but Sheppard slowed nonetheless and suddenly had to stop. 

A wet, narrow gorge spilt the jungle ahead and ran for several miles, an angry darker green gouge in the skin of the jungle. The jungle spilled into the gorge like a wave, with trees and vines clinging at all sorts of angles into the incline, but the ground terrain looked deadly, ragged rocks and ... trailing vines....

Looking down and up, heart pounding and chest tight, skin drenched with sweat, Sheppard scanned his options, the shouts of the Githians below loud and excited, the crash of the approaching men through the canopy heading towards his current perch on the branch which had several long vines, sweeping into the gorge below. No doubt thinking him trapped, as for the Githian’s below he was but a silhouetted figure against the break in the canopy with nowhere to run, the Githians’ shouts were getting louder and all Sheppard could do was stare at the vine and the distance across the gorge. 

Rodney didn’t need to be there for Sheppard to hear his irate, high pitched voice berating him about idiotic flyboys who thought Tarzan movies were a valid source for escape plans and why on earth would he be moronic enough to ignore basic principles of physics, logic and commonsense and actually be contemplating the viability of a 180 pound (when wet) Colonel actually making it across that gorge on a damn vine. Granted, Rodney was long winded at the best of times ... but he couldn’t help but agree with Rodney’s dark chuckle about emulating George of the Jungle. 

It was the dull thud and shudder of the branch he was standing on, and turning around to see Freak himself slowly making his way towards him from the other side of the trunk, that decided him. Sheppard turned and ran, snagging the vine as he went and then he leapt.

It was nothing like swinging on a rope into a swimming hole, it was ten times more heart stopping and thrilling. The vine was slippery and stung his hands, and there were ominous snaps and cracks behind and above, but it was breathtakingly awesome as he hung mid air, suspended over and amidst the jungle, a crazy stunt paying off. 

The Rodney-voice inside his head huffed, ‘Told you,’ when the vine snapped and he dropped, luckily in the right direction at the apex of the swing, so he let go and leapt towards the nearest branch. He missed the one he was aiming for but managed to get a hand on the next one below, unfortunately not before he slammed into some pretty sturdy foliage. Ignoring the shaking, trembling and twitching of his muscles, Sheppard pulled himself up onto the branch, his legs swinging and scrambling madly, more than a couple of fingers bloody and torn, ribs and chest sore both from the landing and hard run. 

Unsteady, but finally upright, John looked back across the green divide and saw a scattering of Githians beneath the tree he had launched himself from. Freak however was a stilted figure in the tree, expression and demeanour lost in the distance, but radiating anger. None of them seemed to be charging down into the gorge after him, nor were they rushing to try the same trick with a vine. Unable to stop the smile, John waved briefly before ducking behind a branch and disappearing into the deep cover, not really wanting to hang around.

Slower than before, more a stagger than a run, the last strenuous efforts sapping his strength, John hurried deeper into the jungle, putting as much distance as possible behind him. It was oppressively quiet after the rush of the chase, and it took ages for his heart rate to calm down. Streaks of sunlight speared through the ragged canopy above, and it was almost surreal in the quiet, surrounded by trees, in the midst of the heart of the jungle, a part of it. The oppressiveness was enhanced by the humidity and his own heaving chest, and Sheppard absently wiped at slowly bleeding cuts on his chest and arms, smearing paint and sweat.

One particularly tall tree seemed like a likely option and John slowed as he climbed higher into the newer, weaker branches, reaching for the top of the canopy. A rough trembling sweat broke out as he climbed, as if his body was slowly catching up with the race and rush now that he had a moment to think. The simple motion of hand over foot, pushing and pulling himself up was strangely difficult, laboured.

Bright patches of sun grew, turning the tree’s leaves into paler versions of themselves and when he poked his head through the leafy roof of the jungle, Sheppard looked all around, searching all directions, hoping to spot some sign of the Heskth village, or the Gate, or signs of pursuit. And in a mixed bag of fortune, he could spot neither.

Exhaustion suddenly poked him in the center, threatening to topple him, and Sheppard leaned against the branches of his perch and struggled to think, head swimming, blood pounding in his ears. The narrow lengths of wood pressed into the deep bruises making his back burn with a fierce ache, but he was too tired to move. Adrenalin could only get you so far and there was a dangerous tremor in his legs, his perch very precarious as he tried to steady himself on the swaying branch. After the rush of the chase, the heat and pressure, burning muscles, the breeze at the top of the canopy was refreshing, sweat beading on his skin along with a rise of goosebumps. 

Taking a moment, well, another one, John tried to shake off the tremors, and as he looked at his immediate surroundings, there, close at hand, oh so close, was an invitingly pale fruit. Cognisant of the last time he’d drunk, er, eaten this fruit, Sheppard weighed the benefits vs the potential poisoning and the accompanying soundtrack ala Carson of “Are you bloody insane, man! What have I told you about suspect off-world food!” In the end, his immediate thirst and the fact that Freak ate the things and seemed... ok, won out. And now Carson’s deep disapproval was joined by Rodney’s snort of ‘And Freak’s a real poster child for the anti-substance abuse campaign on planet puke.’ 

Adding ‘hearing voices’ in the bad things column and a reason to get something to drink, Sheppard snapped the nearest fruit off the tree. Thanks to yesterday’s work in opening stubborn fruit without tools, John sucked his watering mouth as he smashed the fruit on his knee and then the branch and was soon slurping at the white fruity flesh. 

It tasted... wonderful.

Spicy and sweet, instantly thirst quenching, the pulp was soft and delicious and he had barely finished the first when he was reaching for another. The second was opened with more ease and consumed in haste, and Sheppard was well into his third before he realised he felt... better. 

Way better. The mind numbing thirst was going, but so were the aches and pains. He felt light and strong and... he shouldn’t. Smacking his lips together, feeling the paint on his face mix with the juice, John chewed his lip in thought. 

He studied the remains of the fruit around him, snatched one more and slowly climbed down, hands sticky from the pulp of the third helping. The climb was a descent into the hot, muggy, close press of jungle and John felt a lot like monkey, or chimp, especially when he settled into a leafy fork of branches and set about opening the fourth fruit. Contemplating his chest and the white and black paint, John swiped at the swirls, smearing them and hopefully obscuring the white, hiding him amidst the leaves.

The jungle was quiet, the buzz of insects and call of birds the only audible sounds, an underlying hum of peace. The breeze above didn’t make it this far down, and as Sheppard studied his hand, he noted the lack of tremble even as he started to sweat again, beads dotting his painted skin. 

Trying to relax, Sheppard leaned back, scanning the jungle below, listening for sounds of pursuit, and slowly ate the last fruit. There was a growing buzz inside him, a rising need to move, to run again, and compared to the almost total exhaustion of before... this was worrying. The fruit didn’t seem to be messing with his head, but it was definitely deadening the pain and exhaustion – a pro and con. He felt like he could run a mile with ease but in truth, his body was probably beyond that, too exhausted, hurt and bruised, so... bad idea, really.

Forcing himself to sit still, wait it out, think things through, plan ahead, Sheppard finished the fruit and tucked the remains into the crook of the branches nearest him. The itch to move was growing, the pressing need to run, push himself and reach his team was insistent. And finally, it was a combination of the uncertainty of his team being in the hands of potential cannibals and a very real physical need that had Sheppard standing up and scrambling down onto the lower branches.

The first few steps were a release, a joy. It felt so right, so natural to run, to push, and Sheppard felt that he was smiling, as he tore along the branches. And, if his race through the branches before had been confident and sure, this time, it felt like he was home, running through the halls of Atlantis, his path through the trees full steam barely pausing to judge the distance between trees and it felt... wonderful.

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA

If there was one thing Rodney McKay hated it was trite, overdone and overworked clichés. Ok, there was more than one thing he hated, in fact the list was an ever growing, constantly revised work in progress and, while number one would always be ‘deadly citrus’, the order beneath that was in constant flux. Granted citrus probably deserved a dedicated list to itself, right now pleasant seeming people who turned out to be psychotic cannibals was holding at number two, followed by trite, overdone and overworked clichés.

“They are not psychotic, Rodney. Merely following religious and cultural beliefs.” 

Teyla sounded tired more than annoyed, or maybe hung-over, but her voice had that underlying edge of losing patience and Rodney found it quite annoying himself that she was less concerned with their situation and more concerned with his opinion of the Heskets. And he knew his voice was already laced, nay, chock full of annoyance and it was directed at everything, not just Teyla, and mostly at the missing presence of Sheppard.

Ronon was pacing their small little cage, yet another cliché in progress - the caged lion - and Rodney was irritated both with the cliché and the back and forth motion, but not enough to offer himself as an avenue for Ronon to vent and release all that pent up emotion.

So, instead Rodney stayed sprawled against the bars, his chin resting on the lateral rail, legs crossed beneath him. And they’d all probably be even more annoyed and agitated if it wasn’t for the drugged food they kept getting. Teyla and Ronon were refusing to eat after waking up the day before in the cage with massive headaches and no Colonel Sheppard. Rodney though had the fine balance between fears of hypoglycaemia and poisoning and, well, at least this way he might not feel it when they started to cook him.

“Rodney, they are not going to cook us. Atlantis will send help before then. We are already 12 hours overdue.”

Rodney grunted a silent, ‘Ha!’ Eternal optimists were climbing the ranks of the intolerable. The weird snake people who had maybe taken Sheppard but definitely attacked the village, if the cannibals were to be believed, had knocked over the Gate with some sort of primitive explosive and then tried to bury it. The cannibals were busy clearing the rubble and working to get the Gate up but they were too far away to hear if Atlantis were trying to dial in and failing or giving up, or getting eaten as they stepped through. Or worse, being fed lovely sausage rolls filled with delectable Rodney-meat in a few hours time with stories of freak accidents and wild snake men bemusing the plebeian minds of the rescue team.

“Rodney, please. We are not even 100% sure they are cannibals. We only have the word of one of the snake men they captured.”

“Who they dragged off last night and who hasn’t returned and I can smell meat cooking.”

“Shut up, McKay.”

So Rodney shut up and watched the quiet and unhurried traffic in the village. Their cage was near a huge statue of some weird looking dude and there were two other empty cages nearby. All very ominous and all very... cliché. The jungle was close, the treeline an ever encouraging threat to the clearing. Massive trees loomed overhead, but the village was on a small hill, with the Gate placed in a small valley below. It would be very picturesque and quaint if it wasn’t for the weird statue and cages. The village was mostly built from a smooth stone, blue in tone, with slate roofs, but the true feature was the bright red fruit on vines that climbed over house and wall and up into trees. The giant trees were wrapped in vines, red fruit poking out like natural Christmas lights, the branches of the trees hanging heavy with green leaves and red fruit. Between the blue stone, green leaves and red fruit, it was really quiet pretty, clichéd but pretty. However what they needed right about now was a dramatic and well timed rescue, cliché in its arrival but not timing, because Rodney did not want to have to be rescued froma clichéd cauldron over a clichéd fire. 

“Rodney!”

Teyla’s no doubt clichéd tirade was interrupted by a falling, no, leaping figure that swung down out of a nearby tree, landed neatly on its feet and said, “Having fun kids?”

It took a moment to process, Rodney’s brilliant mind slowed by both the doped food and the surprise of a begrimed man leaping from a tree, but due to his massive intellect it still only took a moment to process the grime as paint, the ridiculous hair as natural and the smile familiar beneath the grime, er, paint and Rodney laughed, “Sheppard?”

“John!”

“Sheppard!”

Rodney rolled his eyes at the belated and much slower calls from Teyla and Ronon, but his brain was still processing, so the next thing he said sounded less relieved and more annoyed, “Why in the hell are you covered in paint like some mad native and did you seriously just swing in here on a vine?”

Sheppard just laughed and ambled over to their cage, his stride strong and confident. “John, are you alright... the Heskeths said ...”

John waved her off with a smile, white teeth bright in strange black lips, “The Githians, the snake guys, are weird. But I pulled one out of my ass again and got away. You guys on the dinner menu?”

Teyla’s ‘maybe’ was drowned out by Rodney’s loud “Yes, now get us... mpmhmphmhp..” Ronon refused to remove his hand no matter how much Rodney licked and tried to bite him. “Quiet, McKay.”

“Chewy’s right, dude. Quiet is good. Let’s get out of here and to the Gate, and home.”

Now ignoring Ronon’s hand, Rodney watched as Teyla’s expression brightened and got that curious little crease near her eyes when she worried. “John, are you sure you are alright. Rodney has eaten of the food for the past day and is... acting peculiar, and you...”

Rodney squawked in indignation, he was not peculiar! He tried to tell Teyla that, but Ronon was still acting as the gag of the moment – ha!, pun, totally intended. However, because his brain was pretty big and fast and clever, Rodney also took a good look at Sheppard and part of him noted the blown pupils, twitching muscles and skittish behaviour. The other half though, the drugged, happy, talking a-mile-a-minute half thought, ‘Sheppard somehow manages to look handsome and roguish even barechested in war paint. Bastard.’

A lot closer, now examining the lock on their cage and scanning the forest and near village, Sheppard shrugged, “Let’s worry about the side effects of Planet Puke when we get home Teyla, no real time now, huh?”

Ronon grunted in agreement, “A big rock should do it, Shep. Thing is not that strong.”

“Right, on it.”

Sheppard disappeared into the jungle and Rodney laughed to himself, wondering if he was going to go call Tantor or Cheetah or whatever the hell animal was out there to come help, but if Sheppard tried any sort of Tarzan yell, Rodney was going to mock him for life.

“You going to shut up now?” Ronon hissed and Rodney nodded furiously and Ronon pulled his hand away with a grimace and wiped Rodney’s spit on the back of Rodney’s shirt and Rodney did not appreciate that at all!

“Shut up, Rodney!”

It seemed to be taking John a long time to get a rock, how hard was it to find a rock? Surely there were rocks all over, lying on the path, under trees, bushes, fruit... because Rodney was able to find a rock every single frigging time when they went off-world whether it was in the path or under his sleeping bag or it was being hurled by a village urchin or irate villager or the village idiot, or Sheppard who was trying to get his attention because he wouldn’t...

“Shut up!” 

“Man, you guys were right... he is worse than normal.” Somehow Sheppard had used his sneaky abilities to sneak back without Rodney spotting him and if that didn’t make him a sneaky bastard, nothing did... maybe it was the weird camo paint.

“And what’s with the running commentary and speaking of himself in the third person?”

Teyla sounded hard-pressed and exhausted and, yes, there was that underlying annoyance, “We think the food was drugged and hopefully Carson can figure it out, but please John, let’s get out of here as soon as possible.”

Rodney nodded, watching as Ronon nodded vigorously and Sheppard continued to bash the lock with a large rock. The bashing was quite fierce in its intensity, but the lock wasn’t budging. Ronon took over, of course, because he was strong and had long hair, like Samson.. and maybe that meant if you cut his hair he’d lose his strength and then the team dynamic would shift and Rodney could become...

Suddenly Sheppard’s painted scary face was inches from his and Rodney smiled, “Shep!” 

“Hey, Rodney, you feeling ok.”

“No, no, we’re gonna die, get eaten because you and Conan can’t open a rock with a... lock with a rock! I live with Cavemen!”

“You eat any fruit?”

“ What! Never. Fruit is evil... evil laugh, I am secretly citrus evil fruit. I, Rodney MacKay, do not eat unknown, unscanned, off-world fruit!”

Sheppard smiled that scary smile again, white teeth on black lips and Rodney couldn’t help asking, “What’s with the paint and the Tarzan thing?”

“When in Rome, Rodney.”

“Eat pizza?”

“Come on, let’s stand up.”

It was difficult standing up, his legs were numb and rubbery and it was probably Ronon’s fault because he cut off too much oxygen with his big, fat Satedan hand. “You’re ok, you’re ok, McKay. Just hold onto the bars...”

“John, are you ok?”

Teyla, with her smile and sweet smell and genuine concern was suddenly next to Rodney, catching his wobbly knees, snagging John’s hand through the bars. “Your eyes... and your hands are cold...”

“I’ll be ok, when we get home. No time now.”

“John.”

“Got it!”

Ronon tossed the rock awfully close to Rodney’s head and then Rodney was yanked out into the cold and cruel world and John was backing away from Teyla’s concerned hug and saying, “Come on, Gate is this way.”

“Gate’s buried.”

“Wasn’t when I ran past.”

Teyla and Ronon both perked up at this intel and John was already disappearing into the jungle. Ronon had a firm grasp on Rodney’s upper arm, which was a tad too firm in Rodney’s humble opinion, and was soon dragging him along like a lion dragging its tasty prize.

“Shut up, Rodney!”

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA

 [Part 4](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/15935.html)

  



	4. Fractured Moon 4/4

  


Title: Fractured Moon 4/4

Rating: PG13/R (Gen)

Fandom: SGA

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA

As good as it felt having his team back with him and no longer waiting in a cage for the cooking pots, Sheppard was still feeling out of it, the buzz and charge not diminishing at all. Teyla kept shooting concerned glances at him, no doubt trying to judge his frame of mind or physical ability. Rodney was still talking a-mile-a-minute but was following Ronon without too much prodding. 

They were back together but hardly home and they were weaponless and had two groups of potential enemies between them and the Gate. 

Their journey through the Jungle was fast paced but John missed his earlier speed and the rush of the treetop s, and for a split second John thought he caught a glimpse of Githian hunters on his trail, Freak’s face clear in a break of trees and undergrowth. Wondering if they should take to the trees again, Sheppard sped up, watchful for potential pursuit and his team, feeling a tremor in his heart at the thought of being in Freak’s village again. 

“John, wait!”

Bemused and a little concerned that their delay would let Freak catch them, John slowed, turned and let Teyla and Ronon catch up. Rodney’s face was red, and he was puffing hard, so hard in fact that he couldn’t talk. “We have to move, Teyla.”

“I know John, but if we lose you... please stay in sight.”

He nodded, smiled reassuringly and motioned for them to follow. The sunlight was now golden and orange, warm in colour. The trees were not as dense this close to the village, so broader, brighter beams of sunlight pierced the gloom of the jungle floor, stabbing into the dark like slanted spears. The urge to run was growing again, but Sheppard fought the need by upping the pace again and pulling away, despite Teyla’s hiss.

It wasn’t much further to the Gate, and by the time they arrived John was hunkered behind a stiff bush and Ronon had gagged Rodney with the remains of his shirt. Rodney hadn’t stopped talking, a muffled stream of indignation barely audible. But Rodney wasn’t trying to take the gag out, so maybe he was aware on some level of just how odd the non stop talking was and that they needed to be quiet. Just as John knew that the thrumming urge to run and leap and maybe fight was not entirely him, but hopefully Carson would be able to fix that.

Because it looked like getting through the gate was going to be a pretty tough task. The Heskets had cleared the Gate, but were still milling around, getting the DHD to work. Rodney’s muffled tirade was sounding a lot like a running criticism of their efforts. The clearing for the Gate was small, the earth bare and upturned, as it was likely a frequent battleground between the Githians and Heskets. There weren’t too many villagers, maybe about ten, but reinforcements were a shout away, and his team was unarmed.

“Atlantis should be trying to dial in by now. If we can get the Gate working...” Teyla was interrupted by Rodney’s vigorous nodding but Ronon forestalled removing the gag and said, “Look.”

It seemed that his glimpse of Freak and the Githian hunters was not his imagination. In the shadows of the Jungle across the clearing the Gate stood in, several dark figures lurked. The Heskets had not noticed yet, but Sheppard whispered nonetheless, “They’ll try and stop us going through the Gate.”

“Who?”

“Both groups, but mostly the Githians. But maybe....”

Teyla looked worried, Rodney constipated in the effort to be quiet, and Ronon delighted at the prospect of a fight. 

“I have an idea.”

His team looked at him and he coolly gazed back and smiled, “Just follow my lead. You’ll know when.”

And Sheppard turned and ran straight at the nearest tree, wide of girth and smooth of bark, but by now it was easy to climb and he was soon running along the branch above his team, their faces upturned in astonishment and then there was a handy vine and he opened his mouth and shouted, “Aaaaahhahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

The Heskets turned as one when he landed not too far from them, smiled broadly and said, “Githa eats you for breakfast!”

And as one, they yelled and screamed and John took off, straight towards the hidden Githians. At first there was no reaction from the hidden hunters, but John was pulling away from the Heskets and he stooped to pick up a rock and tossed it straight at the closet Githian. It landed with an audible exclamation, and the Githians broke cover, the Heskets paused and hefted their sticks and shovels and charged. 

Blinking in the sudden gloom after the bright unobscured sunlight, John nearly didn’t see Freak leap out at him, but he was so high strung that even belatedly he was able to dodge. Freak twisted and came after him, growling menacingly, but Sheppard was tired of running. One second his feet were pounding on the ground and the next, he spun and launched himself at Freak. 

Caught by surprise, Freak staggered under the onslaught and John landed three or four solid blows before bringing his knee up and smashing it into Freak’s face as the guy crumpled over the blows. Spilt nose streaming with blood, Freak roared in pain but did not go down. Instead he grabbed Sheppard and slammed him in the broad trunk a tree, and the deep bruises on his back screamed in agony. 

Staggering with the pain, Sheppard barely dodged the next blow, and slammed a fist into Freak’s solar plexus, which dropped the guy. Freak fell with a thud, but only for a few moments, before he started to his feet again. The sounds of battle surrounded them, villagers and natives at eachother’s throats, and as John watched Freak shake off a blow that should have kept him down, he finally got it. 

Freak probably had enough happy fruit juice in him and if John was feeling invincible, so was Freak. No doubt his team were already at the Gate, waiting for him, so Sheppard decided to leave off revenge for now and make for home. He swung one last blow at Freak, a neat round house kick that knocked him on his ass, and the Sheppard was off. A couple of nearby Githians tried to grab John as he ran past but Sheppard’s goal was closer and he was scrambling up a tree before they had a chance to correct and come after him. 

The two groups were a flurry of movement and shouts, spears and shovels clashing together. The Hekets and Githians seemed evenly matched when night time and surprise were removed as factors, but the Githians were over muscled and hefty, and the Heskets were numerous and fanatical. Sheppard didn’t stick around to see the latest round of religious difference sorted out and ran through the trees, ignoring the growing collection of scratches and cuts from the branches and ache in the small of his back, his feet thundering loudly on the branch. 

Through the leaves, he could see that Ronon and Teyla had dealt with the few guards left at the Gate while Rodney fixed the DHD. His team had wasted no time in moving in on the Gate. Another handy vine presented itself and John swung out, landed a little off catching his ankle, but ran on regardless of the pain. 

“You half-brained, over movie-d and half-witted moron! An actual Tarzan yell! I am so mocking you forever.”

“Keep working, Rodney.”

The guards were unconscious and Ronon joined Sheppard in watching the fight across the clearing, just in case they decided to forget their differences and chase the Offworlders.

“You’re crazy, you know that.”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

“Today’s Wednesday.”

“Actually, its Friday, you nincompoops and as usual, I have saved the day!” Rodney exclaimed.

The Gate blossomed into life and that was definitely enough to draw the attention of the combatants. Several Githians broke away and ran towards them, Freak being one of them, his face still a mess of blood.

“Where did you dial, Rodney?”

“New Athos, I may be drugged, but even at a lesser capacity I can outthink all of you combined, especially Captain Hair right now.”

Teyla laughed and dragged Rodney towards the Gate, while Ronon shoved John was well. Sheppard however felt a real urge to stay and fight Freak again and even as he said, “Its Colonel Hair, McKay,” he was fighting Ronon absentmindedly, trying to dodge past his friend’s bulk to get at Freak. 

Ronon however seemed prepared for a tussle and body checked him and then tossed him through the wormhole. The icy rush of wormhole travel was enough of a sobering dunk that when Sheppard landed on the other side in a heap, he didn’t immediately get up and run. But as the Athosians drawn by the Gate’s activation and Teyla’s shout ran over, Sheppard clambered to his feet unsteadily.

The Gate disengaged as Ronon stepped through and Sheppard took a step backwards, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to run, run, run. The adrenalin of the fight and chase and rescue was still surging and the sudden break, the knowledge that they were safe had the opposite effect. He felt a real tremble and compulsion to run.

“Shep?”

“John?” Teyla was helping Rodney to his feet, and Halling was nearly by her side, but Sheppard shoved aside her worry and Ronon’s concern and smiled brightly. “Sorry.”

And then he took off, running full out, muscles screaming. The trees on New Athos were different but more familiar, and John quickly lost Ronon in the forest. He was not able to climb the trees and run like before on Githa, but his headlong rush actually outpaced his friend and he yelled back, knowing Ronon would be able to track him, “Get Carson.”

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA

It took three hours to find Colonel Sheppard. Ronon and Major Lorne had spotted him several times, but the moment they got close, he’d run and lose them. Somehow his transmitter wasn’t working and Ronon had to use old fashioned tracking techniques, but still, it took three hours.

Teyla eventually left Rodney in the Atlantis infirmary and returned to New Athos to find out why it was taking so long to find John. As she stepped through the Gate, Carson was yelling on the radio at Lorne and Ronon, “Well then stop letting him spot you. Every time he runs, he just pushes his body more! Damnit, man!”

Quietly, but making sure he heard her anyway, Teyla joined him and said softly, “No luck then.”

“No, and if the Colonel is as chockfull of the same damn toxins as Rodney, then he will collapse and die before they find him. Damn fools!” Dr. Beckett looked tired and stressed, as did most of the emergency team. They had been trying to reach Githa for hours after all, fearing the worst, hoping for the usual luck that went along with Team Sheppard. And now, even with the Athosians helping Ronon and the Marines, Sheppard was eluding them all.

As it turned out Githa, or MXC-333 as Woolsey was still calling it, was chockfull of toxins and by chockfull, Carson meant truly and utterly laced right down to the ground water. Whatever cataclysm had rocked that world millennia ago and destroyed a moon had left Githa with astronomical levels of toxicity. The plant life and few creatures that remained had adapted to the toxins and then thrived in the reduced ecology. And the human population? Exposed to toxins on so many levels, their culture had disintegrated and fractured and with the only sources of food essentially poison had chosen very ‘alternative’ lifestyles. 

After Carson’s combined medical and xeno-biology team with Marine escort had returned from Githa with samples, crazy natives on their tail and more questions than answers, Woolsey had ordered the gate address removed from the database and locked. Archaeology and Anthropology had been irate, their curiosity piqued at the idea of the remains of a sophisticated society in tatters, different tribes addicted to toxic fruit or practicing cannibalism. Dr. Green had launched into his hypothesis about the moons and devolving religions and survival mechanisms right in the Gate Room, but Woolsey had remained firm. 

Archaeology and Anthropology were collectively escorted from the Gate Room so that more Marines could be sent to New Athos to track down Sheppard and give Carson space and time to work on analysing the samples and make comparisons to Rodney’s bloodwork.

Fairly certain he knew how to help Sheppard, Carson had joined the teams searching for him but so far, he’d done more shouting and channelling an absent McKay than anything else.

“Stop chasing him,” Teyla said firmly.

“What?” Carson snapped as he turned around, paled and then said apologetically, “Sorry, lass. What?”

“Perhaps he runs because he must. But if they stop chasing him, maybe he will run towards us. He was aware enough of the drug’s or toxin’s influence to ask for you and come for us despite it. So maybe... let him come to us.”

Carson thought about it, mused and hummed and then nodded, “Can’t hurt, I suppose. He seemed lucid, right?” Teyla nodded.

He tapped his radio and said loudly, “Everyone pull back to the Gate and let the Colonel come to us.”

There was a chorus of ‘Yes, sirs.’ and a ‘You sure, doc?’ from Lorne but it didn’t take long for the hunters to come in. Ronon was nodding as he walked in and said outright, “Sheppard was running in a circle, around the Gate. I think he’s trying to lose us, but also stay close. Would have got him on the next pass, but he’s damn fast – bug fast.”

“Ronon.”

Carson however couldn’t help the start of guilt at the reference and said glumly, “Well, hopefully he’ll be able to come in now. I have more samples and toxin combinations than I like but if I can just test his blood and isolate the exact chemicals...”

And, fortunately, it didn’t take too long, about 30 minutes. Ronon’s head snapped up first, a proverbial bloodhound scenting the trail and everyone looked around to see the stiff silhouette of Colonel Sheppard in New Athos’ sunset. He was on the very edge of the forest, dimly perceived, a silent creature of the forest in the light of dusk.

“Everyone, back off.”

And as the Athosians and Marines did so, Sheppard slowly advanced, the twitching and trembling in his muscles visible, as were the cuts and bruises and smeared paint, dirt and blood. “Ah, lad. You’re a right mess. Come on.”

Exhausted, but still on edge, Sheppard limped closer but couldn’t seem to close the last hundred metres. Teyla smiled reassuringly and said, “Rodney is recovering on Atlantis and Carson has studied the toxins John, he can help.”

“Aye, lad. I can. You just have to let me.”

John’s eyes were wide and dark, his feet bloody and black, and as much as he looked ready to drop, he also looked ready for a fight. “You got anything to drink, Doc?”

“Sure, sure.”

Lorne tossed his CO a canteen, which Sheppard gulped down and then dropped. The smile was sudden, a relief, a break in the storm, and he said, “Thanks.” And promptly collapsed. 

“Dial Atlantis!”

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA

Sheppard awoke from a strange dream, of a large snake curling around him and pressing, pressing until he couldn’t breathe. So it was a great relief to wake and see the clear blue skies of Atlantis through the window near his bed. 

He was in the Infirmary, as expected, and further to his expectations, everything was coloured in the soft haze of morphine and pain relief. The privacy curtains weren’t drawn and he could see a Rodney shaped pile of blankets on the bed opposite with copious amounts of tubes and drips. And he had the same, if not larger collection of drips and tubes attached to him.

Teyla was sitting next to him, Torren sleeping in her arms, his chubby toddler limbs flung out and lax in the exuberant slumber of a child. She smiled and then that smile deepened as Sheppard retuned it, groggily. He felt... wrung out -yeah, that was a good term - and the ache from his muscles, even with the morphine and drugs, promised a litany of stiffness and bed rest.

“You’re awake, John.”

“Seems so. You ok?”

Teyla nodded serenely, her smile wide, “Yes, as is Ronon and everyone else. Only you and Rodney remain as ‘concerns’.”

“Good.”

The quiet of the Infirmary and, well, Atlantis hung over them, and it was a wonderful sort of quiet, far away from angry emotions and desperate situations. “That was a close one, I guess?”

Teyla nodded, her smile fading. “I fear so. Carson said you were close to collapse, a heart attack even. You had pushed yourself to the extreme, John. You will need to stay for observation, he is worried about damage to your heart.”

“Yeah, just couldn’t stop running. Felt... so good.” 

“Nonetheless, you are now safe, and we are eager... when you are ready, to hear of your experiences with the Githians. Your bruises were... impressive.”

Sheppard grimaced and muttered, “Stuff of nightmares, really.”

Teyla sat back, settling in and said, “I am sure, but we have time – you will be on sick leave for some while, John. Plenty of time for you to heal.”

And even as Sheppard smiled back and said, “Yeah,” he felt a sharp jab of elation at the memory of running wild and free through the trees, heart and feet pounding in unison, blood surging through him. It still felt... so right.

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA

Fin

Prompt: Gen. John injured, sick and weakened but still able to escape and outsmart the people he's escaping from. His escape can be from bad guys or even his own team. I like hurt and comfort equally, and have a major thing for delirious, skittish and feral Sheppard. I'm also a big fan of creative whump - for example, John is hit with a poison-tipped arrow that causes seizures as opposed to just an arrow (not my request, just an example, but you can use it if you want). Team friendship and concern is love. Weight loss is a bonus but not a must.  
  
  
Any and all feedback would be appreciated as I was/am really nervous about this story - one of the most graphic ones I have posted and I have never debated so with myself on a story before, mostly because I wanted to give Kriadydragon the story she wanted... hope I did a half way decent job.  
  
Thanks for reading

 

  



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